


all my goodness is gone with you now [15x09 coda]

by emmbrancsxx0



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15x09, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel Bears the Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Coda, Dean Winchester Prays to Castiel, M/M, MOC!Cas, Mark of Cain (Supernatural), POV Castiel (Supernatural), but the writers said moc!cas and what? expected me to forget about it?, no ma'am, s15e09 coda, this is the most traumatic thing i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22337365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0
Summary: There was an odd sort of symmetry to it. This is how their story began: Dean climbing out of a coffin. This is how their story would end: Castiel being put into one.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 62
Kudos: 307





	all my goodness is gone with you now [15x09 coda]

_Cas?_

_Cas, I dunno if you can hear me. Look, I—You get why it has to be like this right? I didn’t . . . You know if there was any other way, I wouldda . . ._

_Fuck, Cas, I—I’m so fuckin’ sorry. I—Fuck, I can’t do this._

///

**January – Eight Months and Two Weeks Before**

Perhaps happiness wasn’t the right word for it. Castiel wasn’t happy. He supposed he wasn’t allowed that. And they’d lost, after all. Chuck was still out there, even though he was gone for now. Sam’s mood had been somber since Eileen left, and Castiel sometimes caught him staring into the middle distance, unblinking, no doubt thinking of the visions of the future he’d seen. Castiel wished he could share the burden, and he knew Dean tried, but neither of them had seen it firsthand. Neither of them could do much to help Sam.

And, of course, there was the Mark on his arm.

He’d expected it to go away when Chuck destroyed the poultice; but, three days had come and gone, and it was still there. There was no reason to be concerned. The spell hadn’t been cast. There was no power behind the Mark. It was just a scar on his arm, nothing more. Sam agreed. Dean had been wary. They were searching for a way to rid Castiel of it, but it wasn’t the priority. It was no bother, apart from being unsightly, but it wasn’t anything covering it with his sleeve wouldn’t solve.

Regardless, there was little reason to be happy. But then there were the moments that he would look up and catch Dean’s eyes across the room, and Dean’s mouth with lift in a coy kind of smile as he looked down. There were the moments when Dean would walk behind Castiel's chair, and sweep his hand along the back of his shoulders. There were the moments at dinner when Dean’s knee would press against his under the table. The moments Dean would invite him to watch a movie or go to the grocery store or get a drink at the local bar. And, in those moments, it wasn’t total and overwhelming happiness, but it was close.

“Okay, so _Rio Bravo_ or _The Cowboys_?” Dean asked. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, a DVD box in either hand, an entire pile of disks overturned on the carpet behind him. Castiel, from his place on the armchair, didn’t know why Dean was asking his opinion. He never actually took it under consideration.

He picked up a kernel of popcorn from the bowl on his lap. “ _Cowboys_ ,” he chose at random.

Dean looked up, crestfallen. “ _Rio Bravo_ has Dean Martin in it.”

Castiel fixed him with a stare, and decided to let it go. He waved his hand to show he was fine with it. In truth, he didn’t care which John Wayne movie they watched, with or without Dean Martin. He was just content to watch anything with Dean Winchester.

Satisfied, Dean popped in the disk and rushed towards the chair next to Castiel’s, falling into it as the movie began to play. He side-glanced down at the stand between them to pick up his beer and then took a swig. Occasionally, he would reach over and dig his hand into the popcorn to take out a thick handful, and Castiel felt the contents shift against his knees. Once, Dean didn't go for the popcorn at all. He reached over and took Castiel's hand in his own, lacing their fingers. It was surprising at first, but a good surprise, and one Castiel wouldn't object to. Dean’s hands were slick with butter and grainy with salt. Castiel glanced over at him, and Dean looked back. He offered a slight smile, some part of his soul sparkling in his eyes. Castiel smiled back.

///

_Things have been pretty bad, Cas. Guess you probably know that already. But . . . Things have been—Donna’s gone. So are the girls. Alex, Patience. Claire. I know—I know that’d hit you pretty hard. I’m sorry. And Jody, she’s always been tough but . . . Everyone’s gone._

_But we can’t give up, Cas. Chuck wants us to stand down, but we—you know, me and Sammy, we can’t. We . . . Damnit, Cas, everything’s been so fucked up. Maybe you’re better off—._

_Truth is, I’m . . . And Sam, he’s no better. Least, he’s got Eileen._

_Man, I really wish you were here._

///

**February – Seven Months and Three Days Before**

Snow was falling down outside, collecting on the windowsill high up on the wall of Dean’s bedroom. Cloudy gray light was filtering through, but the world outside was pure white. Castiel couldn’t even see the sky through all of it.

Dean was still snoring beside him, skin pale in the morning glow, freckles stark against his complexion, as he lay stomach-down. His cheek was smushed into his pillow. Castiel still couldn’t quite believe that Dean allowed this—had actually _asked_ for Castiel to watch over him as he slept. After the first night, Castiel was certain Dean would change his mind; but, the next night, Dean had led him by the hand into his room again. It was still just as unbelievable a month later. But Castiel counted himself fortunate.

Dean had always looked so lovely as he slept. Childlike and free, softened. He seemed to be sleeping better than usual, too, and secretly Castiel hoped his presence had something to do with that.

After some time, Dean let out a few low sounds of waking up, and Castiel thought he liked this part the best. The way Dean’s body would tense up, his shoulders rolling, and then loosen again. The way his eyes would squeeze and then flutter, his long lashes sweeping against his cheeks. His green eyes blinking open and coming into focus. The little sniffing noise he made as he inhaled his first waking breath of the day.

Castiel had to look away quickly, afraid that Dean would find it “creepy” that he was staring at him. He returned to the book perched open on his chest, pretending he’d been reading it the entire time.

Dean hummed, and Castiel felt his eyes on him. Felt the tiny smile on his face, like he was happy Castiel was still there, and hadn’t left in the night. “Mornin’,” he greeted, voice rough.

Castiel placed the book facedown on his chest and looked at him. “Good morning, Dean. Did you sleep well?”

Dean’s eyes fell closed again, like he was about to go back to sleep. “Like a baby.” He stretched out like a cat, and then lifted himself up by the elbows. Still on his stomach, he looked at Castiel, and then out the window, and then back again. “How long’s it been snowing?” he asked, sounding fractionally more awake.

“A few hours.”

“Sounds like a good day for some hot chocolate.”

Castiel smiled softly down at him, at his rumpled hair and the lines around his eyes. He shuffled to a sitting position up the headboard, and saved his page in the book before setting it on the nightstand. His clothes and coat were folded on the chair at Dean’s desk, leaving him in only a pair of boxers, a cotton shirt, and socks. He wasn’t under the blankets, but he wasn’t cold. He still had enough grace to prevent that. In fact, his grace had seemed to grow stronger in the last few weeks. It wasn’t such a strain to heal wounds or smite monsters. He felt like his old self.

Perhaps even better than his old self.

If not for his clipped wings, he would have thought his grace was restored to full strength, before Metatron’s spell. Before the Fall.

He put his hands on his lap, letting them rest loose and lazy. “Only if we have marshmallows,” he said.

He expected Dean to respond, but a few seconds of silence past, and he lifted his eyes. Dean was staring at his arm, lips tense and eyes fixed. Castiel didn’t have to follow his line of sight to know he was staring at the Mark.

“Dean,” Castiel said, trying to coax him. He couldn’t help the slight frustration licking his tone. He wondered if he should get up and get dressed, to cover the Mark. He didn’t like Dean looking at it. He told himself it was because of the bad memories it must have dredged up for Dean, but deep down he knew that wasn’t the reason. He didn’t like the way Dean looked at it. Like it was the enemy.

It was nothing. It held no power.

“Yeah,” Dean said, physically rattling his head to stop himself from staring. His eyes flickered up, but his smile was shaky and forced. “What? Yeah, yeah. Marshmallows. I think . . . in the pantry—Hey, that, uh . . . How you feelin’, Cas?”

Castiel knitted his brows together, and tried not to sigh wearily. Dean had asked him that often as of late, and he was frankly getting sick of the question. “I’m fine, Dean.”

“I know, but . . .” He lifted his hand up, bringing it forward like he meant to stroke the skin around the Mark with his fingertip. “You know, can’t be too careful when it comes to—.” A sharp gasp cut him off. Before his fingers could even graze the Mark, Castiel had grabbed his wrist to stop him.

It surprised them both. Castiel hadn’t meant to do that, but it had happened so quickly—a reflex. He didn’t want Dean to look at it, much less touch it. But his grip was too tight around Dean’s wrist. He could see it in the way his knuckles were white under his skin. He could feel Dean’s joint under his hold, all the little, fragile, easily breakable bones of his wrist . . .

Castiel let him go. Slowly, as to not hurt him.

Dean pulled his hand back like he’d been burned, and he wouldn’t meet Castiel’s eyes. As for himself, Castiel looked down at his lap. He should leave. He should get dressed.

“I’ll, um . . .” he started, and the sheets rustled as he kicked his legs to the side of the bed. He lingered for a moment, his back to Dean. “I’ll go find the marshmallows.” He stood up, and grabbed his button-down shirt from the chair as he walked out of the room.

The rest of his clothes could wait. He just wanted to cover his arm.

///

_You know, it’s taking everything I got not to grab a shovel, right?_

///

**April – Five Months Before**

“You think I give a shit about your beef with God?” the djinn said. He was tied up to a chair in the ramshackle house where they’d found him. They’d released his victims, and Sam drove the ones who were too weak to the nearest hospital while Castiel and Dean stayed behind to interrogate him. Sam was back now, and the djinn was still giving them nothing.

It was frustrating, especially because they didn’t need him. He was only a grunt, and a loner, too disconnected from his people to know their legends and culture. But the Winchesters had caught wind of an ancient djinn ritual to subdue gods into an unconscious state. That didn’t mean it would work on the actual God, but Sam and Dean felt it was worth pursuing. Castiel wasn’t so convinced.

“I think you’re gonna care,” Dean threatened, twiddling the knife in his hands. He had yet to use it, however, and it had been hours. The djinn was probably beginning to catch on. Castiel, from his place near the window, sighed. Dean was a skilled torturer. True, he didn’t enjoy it, but sometimes it was necessary.

Not that any of this was necessary . . .

Castiel just wished they would get it over with.

The djinn let out a sardonic laugh. “Yeah, right. Why don’t you show me what you’re made of, asshole.”

The Mark on Castiel’s arm itched.

That was enough. Castiel picked himself off of the wall and marched towards Dean. He swiftly plucked the knife from his grip, ignoring his protests of, “Cas, what the—?”

“Do you know of the spell we’re looking for?” Castiel asked, looking down at the djinn.

The djinn looked back, defiant. For some reason, that was the last straw. Castiel drove the knife into the monster’s shoulder, and it let out a terrible cry.

“Cas!” Sam yelled. Castiel ignored him.

“Do you know anyone who can lead us to the spell?” he asked when the djinn was done screaming.

“No!” it said, voice pitiful, and—distantly, Castiel thought, the monster was young. But it was still a monster. “No, I don’t know about any spell. I swear to G—.”

“Fine.” Castiel brought forward his grace, feeling it bubble under his vessel’s skin. He clasped his palm to the djinn’s forehead and pushed his essence into its body, burning it through.

“Cas, stop!” Dean was yelling. “Fuck, Cas—.”

Sam was calling for him, too. Castiel didn’t stop. Not until the djinn’s body was hollow, eyes burned out and mouth open in a silent scream. And, even then, he kept pushing forward, even though the monster was dead. He felt the skin charring beneath his hand, smelled cooking meat.

“Cas, _enough_!”

He kept going.

And then he felt a presence next to him, close but not daring to touch. Dean’s voice was a whisper: “Come back.”

Castiel pulled his grace back into his vessel. He blinked the light from his irises. He looked down at the blackened shell still tied to the chair in the dark house. He lifted his eyes to meet Dean’s, and shame instantly washed over him. Dean was looking at him with controlled fear in his eyes. His jaw was set, but a muscle was jumping beneath his skin.

Castiel had made him afraid. He never wanted Dean to look at him like that again.

Behind him, he heard Sam say warily, voice nearly shaking, “Cas? What the hell was that?”

Castiel curled his fingers into loose fists and let them hang uselessly at his sides. “I—,” he began. He swallowed. “We were wasting time. This djinn didn’t know anything.”

“Okay,” Dean said, and he must have gotten himself in check, because he sounded angry. “So we gank him.”

“That’s what I—.”

“That’s not what you did,” Dean cut in. “You fuckin’ torched him. You save that for the big bads, got it? Not stunt monster number five.”

Castiel clamped his mouth shut, anger flaring momentarily as he met Dean’s gaze. “We were getting nowhere.”

Dean only shook his head, lips pursed.

Behind him, Sam said softly, “This is what I was trying to stop.”

What did that mean? Dean looked up quickly, over Castiel’s shoulder at Sam. Castiel wheeled around to face him. He tilted his head to the side in question.

Sam was looking down, expression despondent and full of guilt. “The Mark . . . Chuck showed me what would happen if—.”

“The Mark isn’t affecting me,” Castiel told him. Sam didn’t need to feel remorse.

But Sam only scoffed, not believing him.

“How can it?” Castiel reasoned. But, even as he said it, he could feel the Mark branded onto his skin. “We didn’t trap Chuck. It has no power behind it.”

“Maybe it does,” Sam countered. “Maybe, the spell was enough to—.”

This conversation was pointless, just like their time with the djinn. “It doesn’t. I’m fine.” His tone was curt. He heard it. He didn’t sound very convincing, perhaps because he wasn’t convinced himself. But he didn’t need to acknowledge that. And the Winchesters needn’t be concerned.

He looked back at Dean, schooling his features into something softer. “I’m fine, Dean,” he said.

Dean stared at him hard for a moment, and then his expression slackened. Perhaps he didn’t want to acknowledge it, either. Perhaps he was ignoring his gut instinct.

He nodded.

Castiel was relieved.

///

_Me and Sam still haven’t found anything for the Mark. But we will, okay? Just hang in there. We’ll find something, I promise. ‘Til then, just . . . Just listen to my voice, okay? Maybe it’ll make us both feel better. I’ll keep on praying, I promise. I won’t give up—on any of it._

_I won’t leave you, Cas._

///

**June – Three Months and One Week Before**

Castiel sat on the edge of the bed, head hanging and hands curled tightly around his knees. His sleeves were rolled up, the Mark stark and red on his flesh. Its color seemed to darken every day. The skin around it was inflamed, blotchy and irritated, from Sam’s poking at it just minutes ago. The Winchesters hadn’t stopped their search for a solution. Castiel didn’t think they’d ever stop.

Sam had come across a spell—a few ingredients and an Enochian enchantment—that he thought might work. It hadn’t. And Castiel wouldn’t admit to them that he was relieved it hadn’t. He wouldn’t admit it to himself. But he thought Dean knew. They’d argued. Dean had yelled, asking if Castiel even wanted the Mark gone, accused him of not helping. Castiel said some things he regretted—some choice words on Dean’s behavior when the Mark was his.

Now, he sat in Dean’s room, the bunker quiet around him, his thoughts loud within him. He waited for Dean to come inside so he could apologize.

However, when the door slowly opened and Dean paused in the doorway, Castiel didn’t know how to begin. He glanced up at Dean, holding his stare. Dean lingered momentarily before stepping into the room and closing the door silently behind him. He crossed the room to the bed and sat down, the memory foam barely dipping under his weight.

“You know we’re just worried, right?” he said after some time, voice low and rough and raw with tender emotion that Castiel wasn’t certain he deserved.

Castiel kept his eyes on his lap. His shoulders heaved as he sighed, breathing to control the denials that sprang like magma to his mind. _There’s nothing to worry about_ , and _I’m fine_ , and _I have it under control_. Instead, he said, “I know.”

Dean nodded, and licked his lips. He took in a shaking breath and said, “Look, I know what it’s like. I mean, hell, if there’s one person who gets it, it’s me. But, Cas . . .” He shook his head, some bitterness twisting his mouth downward. “You gotta fight it, man. I need you to—.”

Castiel looked up at him, eyes scanning his face. Dean seemed apprehensive. “You need me to what, Dean?”

Dean’s throat rippled as he swallowed. He said, “I just need you.”

Castiel wasn’t sure what to say. He watched Dean orient his body to face him, his knee bending on the bed and his spine twisting. He reached up, hand hesitant and it lingered in the air between them. He placed it on Castiel’s shoulder and squeezed, but it must have not been good enough. His fingers were warm on Castiel’s cheek. “Tell me you’re not going anywhere, Cas. Tell me you’re gonna stay right here.”

Castiel’s throat felt too dry, too hot and constricted. His lips parted. He couldn’t tear his gaze from Dean’s—glassy and hopeful. Faithful. “Dean—.” Of course, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Dean leaned forward and pressed their lips together chastely. Castiel heard his breath catch, and he felt Dean pull away. He didn’t want that. He chased after his lips, kissing him again—and again. He turned into Dean, and Dean’s other hand went up to cradle the back of his neck. Dean slowly leaned back, guiding Castiel on top of him, and Castiel thought it was the closest to happiness he’d ever get.

He kissed Dean deeply, and Dean parted his lips into it, licking Castiel’s mouth open so their tongues could roll together. Castiel didn’t break away as he put one leg over Dean to straddle him. He deepened the kiss, as if trying to fit a millennia of passion into a single kiss, trying to find a way to go back and do this with Dean every day from the day they met. It pulled a grunting sound from Dean’s throat, and his fingers dug into the back of Castiel’s neck, egging him on.

Castiel ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, messing it up, loosening the hold of the day-old dried gel. He clenched his hands into it, and Dean gasped into his mouth. He tasted sour like whiskey, and his stubble scratched against Castiel’s cheeks. Castiel took Dean’s bottom lip between his teeth and bit down, pulling at it, and Dean gave another sharp noise.

He moved away from Dean’s mouth, sucking a line into his jaw, moving down his throat. “Cas, slow down—,” Dean told him, his body shivering beneath him. Castiel didn’t want to slow down. He wanted Dean _now_. All of him. Completely.

He grazed Dean’s adam’s apple with his teeth, and nibbled at his skin. Dean’s hand flew back to his shoulder, gripping him hard. Castiel reached for it, grabbing Dean by the wrist and twisting his arm down to the bed, holding it there. Dean gave a strangled sound, eking out, “ _Cas_.”

Castiel barely heard him. He sucked Dean’s skin raw. His fingers clenched tighter. He pressed his hips down against Dean’s.

“Cas, stop— _Cas_!” Dean called. He pitched his body upwards into Castiel. “Cas—damn it!”

And Castiel realized Dean’s body wasn’t moving in passion. He wasn’t calling Castiel’s name with ardor. He was trying to get away. Castiel didn’t want to stop. He wanted Dean. He wanted him. He wanted to take him for his own, to claim him.

He ripped himself away, heart slamming against his ribs. His fingers felt empty now that he wasn’t holding Dean down. His body felt cold, but pulsing. He swallowed hard, blinked rapidly. His eyes came back into focus on Dean, and he looked afraid again, but for a different reason. His lips were slick and red, a small line of blood cracked into them. His eyes were wide, hurt. Castiel had hurt him.

“Dean, I’m—.”

Dean practically scrambled to sitting position, and shifted backwards on the bed so he could get out from between Castiel’s knees. He was barely blinking, eyes still wide and fixed on Castiel. With his opposite hand, he rubbed at the wrist Castiel had been holding down, and Castiel could already see a bruise blooming on the skin.

“What the fuck, Cas?” Dean barked. He was angry. But it was the anger that rose to surface to bury down another emotion—something much more vulnerable.

Castiel couldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean—.” He shook his head, sorrowful. He didn’t know what he’d meant. All he knew was that he _still_ wanted Dean. His body was itching towards him. He couldn’t trust himself. He couldn’t look at Dean, fearful he would succumb to the urge if he did. “Maybe—Maybe I shouldn’t stay in here tonight.” It took all his will to say it.

He heard Dean’s throat click. “Yeah, maybe—,” Dean agreed, and Castiel hadn’t wanted him to. “Just for tonight.” They both knew it would be longer than that.

A swell of fury overcame him momentarily, because Dean was supposed to stop him from leaving. Dean was supposed to want him to stay. He forced the anger down, because Dean was right. He was right. Castiel had to leave. He couldn’t breathe under Dean’s frightened eyes. He couldn’t stand the fact that he’d hurt him.

Castiel got up quickly, and made for the door, aware of Dean’s gaze following him out. He’d ruined it. He’d ruined everything.

He ripped the door open with more force than intended, and squeezed the handle. He stayed there for a moment, staring downwards, knowing that Dean wasn’t so much as breathing. Maybe there was still time to fix this. Maybe he could go back to Dean—to show Dean he didn’t want to leave.

He tensed his jaw and made himself step into the hallway. He couldn’t trust himself to stay.

///

_Cas, just give me a sign that you’re alright. Please. I can’t—this one-way communication is killing me, man. I just . . . I just need to know you can hear me. If you can, please, Cas, just send me a sign._

///

**August – Three Weeks and Five Days Before**

“Okay, but it’s not the worst thing, right? I mean, it’s not—It’s taken care of.”

Dean was pacing back and forth in the bathroom. He took four quick strides in one direction, six in the other. He was chewing on his thumbnail, practically gnawing on it.

Castiel barely saw anything more than a blur. He stared ahead, eyes dry and unblinking, but what did it matter? He barely even breathed. He was sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Sam was kneeling in front of him, a damp washcloth in his hands, sleeves sopping. He wrung it out into the bowl of hot water, and the droplets were red. He brought the cloth back up and wiped along Castiel’s chin, the temperature stinging. Castiel barely felt it. All he felt was the blood—caked on deeper than his skin.

All he saw were bright flashes of light, tattered wings burned into soil and white tile.

He hadn’t meant to do it. He’d gone to Heaven to ask for Naomi’s help. They needed help taking on Chuck. They needed help stopping him. But she refused. All of them refused. Castiel had meant to reason with them, to tell them Chuck would end everything—not just Heaven. What did it matter if it collapsed when the rest of creation was burning? He’d meant to lead them into battle.

But they refused him and he just got so angry . . .

“I mean, Michael’s up there now. He said he’d take care of it. The ones who didn’t—the ones still alive—he’s gonna heal ‘em,” Dean was saying. He was trying so hard to justify this. There was no justifying it. Castiel felt hollow inside. He wanted to rip his grace from his chest. To cut the Mark from his arm. He wanted to die. “He’ll keep the lights on.”

“Yeah, for now, Dean,” Sam said. His tone was clipped, frustrated. He was doing his best to keep a level head, but he was handed an impossible task. Dean was in denial. Castiel was like a rabid dog in need of being put down.

The words stung, just enough for Castiel to feel sensation in his body again.

Dean stopped pacing and pursed his lips angrily at Sam’s back. “Dude—,” he began, eyes warily flickering to meet Castiel’s.

“Dean, he’s right,” Castiel said. It must have surprised the brothers. It had certainly surprised Castiel. It had been the first words he’s spoken since he returned to Earth, and he’d almost forgotten the sound of his own voice. It sounded scratched down to nothing. It hurt his throat to speak. “An archangel’s grace can power Heaven, but not forever. It may take thousands of years, but, eventually, Heaven will fail. And all the souls . . .”

Both Winchesters had gone still. Castiel felt a shiver rock his spine. He couldn’t stand to look at either of them. He turned away, eyes fixed on the tile floor. “This is my fault,” he whispered, and let his eyes slip closed. He saw more bursts of dying grace, more wings, more chaos. The images were new and old. He wished he could see only empty darkness. It was what he deserved.

“No, Cas, don’t,” Dean began, he breathed out heavily. “It’s not your fault.”

Castiel gritted his teeth, but only in a fraction of the rage that had swept over him like a hurricane in Heaven. “I slaughtered them, Dean,” he yelled, voice hard. In his peripheries, he saw Sam’s body jolt like he’d been hit. “Everyone that was left—It was my fault. The Leviathan, the Fall. And this time—I was just finishing what I’d started all those years ago.”

“Don’t fucking say that,” Dean argued, because of course he would.

Castiel breathed in, held it for five seconds, and breathed out—like Dean had taught him to do to control his anger. He needed to get himself in check before he did anything irreparable. Before Sam and Dean felt his wrath.

He knew they wouldn’t like what came next. His own stomach sloshed, throat closing like it was trying to shut him up. He managed, “You have to . . . You’re going to have to stop me from doing anything like this again.”

Dean took a step forward, and then halted. He said, “We know. Cas—we got your back.”

“No, not—.” Castiel’s looked away from him, his eyes passing over Sam. Sam’s face had gone pale, his eyes wide and mouth slack. He already knew what Castiel was suggesting. After all, he was the one who’d given Castiel the idea. It had been through the visions of the future Chuck had shown him. Castiel tore his gaze away from Sam, and said, “Not like that. We can’t risk it.”

He forced himself to look up, to show he meant it when he said, “Rebuild the Ma’lak Box.”

A muscle in Sam’s jaw leapt when he tensed it, and he looked away, eyes shut. Dean’s hands fisted at his sides. “No. No fuckin’ way.”

“Dean.”

“No!” He charged forward. “It ain’t happening. This isn’t—Cas, this isn’t unsalvageable.”

Castiel disagreed. The Mark was affecting him. They all knew it. He just didn’t want to listen. He was listening now—just too late. They all knew what had to happen next. “It is the _only_ way,” he said, hands clasping the lip of the bath beneath him. He could feel the tide welling up inside of him, threatening to pull him under.

“Cas,” Sam said, voice small, regretful.

Castiel looked at him quickly. “This was unavoidable, Sam,” he said, just to be clear. This wasn’t Sam’s fault. It wasn’t his doing. He addressed both of them: “It was my choice to take on the Mark. It was my choice to bear to consequences.”

“You’re not the only one whose gotta deal with the consequences!” Dean yelled, his voice echoing off the tile and high ceilings. “Damn it, Cas, _no_!”

Castiel had to insist. He had to dig his heels in on this one. The only problem was, so would Dean. “Rebuild it, or I’ll do it myself.” He stared at Dean hard, glowering, and Dean glared back.

And then, Dean’s gaze flickered down, and he dropped his shoulders. His chin tightened, but not before it quivered gently. He got himself under control, and licked his lips. He said to Sam, “Can you give us a minute?”

Sam looked over his shoulder, pausing momentarily before nodding. He pulled himself off of his knees, and looked at Castiel, eyes full of sorrow, as if it were the last time he’d ever see him. He left the room shortly after that, dirty washcloth and red-soaked water in hands. They both watched his back retreat and, once he was gone, Dean brought his attention back to Castiel.

“Cas,” he said after a beat. Castiel didn’t answer, didn’t even lift his eyes. So Dean came forward and crouched between his knees. His palms were warm on Castiel’s thighs. “Cas, look at me.” Castiel wouldn’t. “Look at me.” He relented.

Dean went on, “You are not allowed to give up, you understand? You promised. You remember that? You promised me you weren’t going anywhere.” His voice was so low, just a soft whisper, hitching with breath. His eyes were full of naked dread and stubborn determination. “Just give us a little bit of time. Me and Sammy, okay? We just need some time. You have to keep fighting it, Cas. For you—for me.”

Castiel jutted out his jaw and shook his head. He couldn’t live like this, with so much pain eating him up inside. “Dean, the things I did—.”

“I know,” he admitted, his voice gentle.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone else, Dean. I don’t want to hurt Sam—or you.”

“I know,” Dean repeated, this time quieter. “But you won’t. Listen to me—you won’t. It’s not too late. We have options.”

Castiel wanted to laugh. The corners of his mouth lifted sardonically. “What options?”

There were none, and Dean knew it. His hands squeezed Castiel’s legs a little tighter, subconsciously clinging to him. “We’ll find some.” They wouldn’t. “And it’s not like we have the First Blade anymore, right? So, how much damage could you do?” It was a joke, but it fell flat. Castiel was an angel. Even without the Blade, he could cause much destruction. He could cause ruination.

“We have some time,” Dean assured him. “But, ‘til then . . .” His breath shook. He swallowed audibly. “Stay, Cas. I’m asking you to stay.”

Castiel latched on to those green eyes. Of course, he would stay. Until he couldn’t any longer. Whatever that meant.

He lifted his hands and placed them on top of Dean’s. “Okay.”

A corner of Dean’s mouth flickered up, but just briefly. He nodded, tension easing from his body. “Okay,” he repeated. He dragged his palms up and down Castiel’s thighs and then pulled away, standing up. His shoulders were slumped as he left the bathroom.

Castiel let out a breath, hearing it fill up the silence around him. He picked himself up, ass a little sore from the porcelain of the tub. He moved to the sinks, eyes on his reflection walking towards him in the mirror. When he came upon the sink, he kept staring forward.

His face was drawn and pallid, his expression blank. There was a speck of blood on his temple.

///

_You were in my dream last night. I know, I know. I’m a sixteen-year-old girl. You’re—I dream about you a lot, you know? At first, I thought—I dunno, maybe it was really you. I didn't wanna wake up. Guess I still don't._

_Anyway, I dreamed—we found a cure. And we were together again. But, Cas, I don’t think . . . Maybe you were right. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe I can only see you in my dreams from now on. If it even is you._

_I’d like that, Cas. If it was really you._

_It’s not, is it?_

_Truth is, Cas, I don’t even think you can hear me down there. I think the warding’s too strong._

_You’re really gone, aren’t you?_

///

**September – One Week Before**

“I have it under control.”

“You _don’t_ have it under control!”

“Yes, I do. There’s no need to—.”

“Oh, really? Because I seem to remember a couple weeks ago, you were begging us to lock you up!”

“I didn’t really think you'd rebuild the Box.”

This argument was ridiculous. They were standing in the map room, Sam and Dean’s bags packed as they were on their way to a hunt. Castiel was growing stir-crazy. He’d barely left the bunker since his return from Heaven. When he did, Dean or Sam always accompanied him—as if he were a child. They were smothering him. The least they could do was allow him to go on a hunt with them, so he might exert this pent up energy. He didn’t understand why they would deny him of that. He was a valuable asset.

“Cas, you know that was just for insurance,” Sam said, voice a lot calmer than Dean’s. “We’re not really gonna use it. Unless—.”

Castiel shot him a simmering glare. “Unless what? I step out of line?”

Deep down, he knew they were right to rebuild the Ma’lak Box. He knew they hadn’t wanted to, but it was essential. And he knew their watchful eyes were so they would never have to use it. But they couldn’t keep this up forever. Even if their will lasted the rest of their lives, Castiel would outlive them. What then? It was foolish for them to even try to control him.

“Unless you go nuclear again,” Dean cut in bluntly. Castiel ground his teeth, trying to force calm. It was getting harder and harder by the day. His fists were clenched so tightly, he thought his nails digging into the meat of his palms might break skin. But he hardly felt it. With each passing moment, he felt less and less in tune with his vessel. Less and less connected.

The only piece of it that mattered anymore was the Mark on its arm.

The rest of him was fire and fury, pure and righteous light. The Winchesters could no sooner control him than they could a supernova.

Still, it wasn’t for a lack of trying.

“I won’t— _go nuclear_.”

“Cut the crap air-quotes, Cas.”

Castiel rolled his eyes violently. “I’m fine, Dean,” he tried again, because he was fine. They were just worrying too much.

Sam gave him a sympathetic look. “Cas, I dunno if you’re in the right headspace to hunt right now, okay? Maybe some downtime will do you some good.”

Castiel didn’t want downtime. He’d had enough. He shook his head and bit his tongue, because anything he said would be too vicious. “Downtime until when?” he challenged.

“Until we can figure out a cure for the Mark,” Sam told him frankly, but it was just wishful thinking.

“There is no cure for the Mark,” Castiel snipped. “You’ve both been searching for months, but we all know it’s a waste of time. The only cure is to pass it to someone else.”

Dean stepped forward. “Fine, then give it to me.”

Castiel’s stomach dropped. It wasn't the first time Dean had said this. He told himself his apprehension was because of Dean’s suggestion, because he’d never let Dean go through that again. But something darker curled in his gut, a kind of possessive greed. The Mark was his.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t take it again.”

“We don’t know that,” Dean countered. “C’mon, Cas, you’re really not worried about it? You really think it doesn’t have any juice? Then, what’s the big deal? Pass it to me.”

“Dean, hang on—,” Sam tried.

Castiel bulldozed over him. “It would affect you, like it did before. Maybe worse. You’re a man, Dean. I’m stronger than you. My grace is keeping the Mark at bay.”

“What, ‘cause you’re an angel?”

“Yes.”

Dean raised his brows as if Castiel had just proved his point. “Okay, and the last angel that had the Mark turned into the fucking _devil_!”

Castiel’s face turned stormy. How could Dean think such things? How could he make that comparison? “I’m not Lucifer.”

“Exactly. You know why? Because Lucifer was an _arch_ angel. He was more powerful than you, and he couldn’t even stop it!”

Castiel’s teeth were on edge. He wondered if he could force Dean into silence.

“So, stay put! In the bunker. Got it?”

Castiel scoffed. “So, I can’t help the search for Chuck. I can’t hunt. And now I’m not even permitted outside?”

Dean dipped his neck in a nod. “Yeah, sounds about right to me.”

Castiel wanted to tear him apart. But he wouldn't. He wouldn't hurt Dean.

Sam stepped between them, holding up his palm—either as a barrier or in surrender. Castiel narrowed his eyes dangerously as Sam said, “It’s just to keep you safe, Cas, okay? You know we’re right.”

No. That was bullshit. Castiel’s eyes were nearly slits as he corrected, “You mean, so I won’t hurt someone else?”

Sam dropped his shoulders, but kept quiet. Dean didn’t say anything, either. It was all the confirmation Castiel needed. Inside of his chest, heat flared.

“You don’t trust me.”

“No, Cas, c’mon,” Sam said at once, lifting his arm up and then letting it fall again in an aborted gesture. He was lying. The empathy act wouldn’t work on Castiel. He wouldn’t be fooled.

“You don’t.” His arm felt like it a hot brand was being pressed to it, unrelenting. His mind clouded over with the fire licking up from the Mark. There was nothing else—no sound or light or reason. There was only the overwhelming urge to grab Sam Winchester and slam him into the wall, to press his palm to that fragile human’s chest and crush his bones and tissue and heart.

Distantly, he heard Dean’s voice calling him—panicked, desperate. He heard Sam let out a choking sound.

“I’ve done _everything_ for you! I’ve given everything for you and your brother. And you can’t trust me? After everything? You refuse to see me as anything but a pawn—.”

“Cas, stop—Cas—.” That was Sam’s voice. Something in him knew it was Sam. Sam was in trouble. He was hurt. Who was hurting him?

“You have no power over me!”

“Cas! Stop! Cas, please!” That was Dean. He was terrified. “Please, Cas! Let him go! Now!” He felt hands on him, trying to pull him in one direction. It was ineffective—like a gnat trying to move a mountain. But something about it made Castiel blink.

Everything came flooding back. He felt his palm pushing into Sam’s chest, felt Sam’s hands gripping his wrist as he was pushed against the concrete wall, struggling to fill his lungs with air. He felt Dean trying to pull him away, raging against him, trying to save his brother.

Sam was hurt. Castiel was hurting him.

He reeled backwards, and Sam collapsed to the floor, coughing and wheezing. Castiel’s ears popped as if coming down from a high altitude. He had to shake away the fog. Dean was on his knees now, next to Sam, checking over him to make sure nothing was broken. His eyes were on Castiel, big and horrified. His jaw was set as if he were about to go into battle, as if Castiel were something he needed to hunt down and kill.

It was enough for some of the ire to course through Castiel’s bloodstream again. He needed to leave. Because of Sam? Because he was ashamed?

Because he might kill the Winchesters if they tried to stop him again.

He turned around quickly and made for the stairs, the metal clanging under his shoes as he moved. Behind him, he heard Sam say, “I’m fine, I’m fine—Go. Don’t let him leave—Dean.”

He heard Dean scramble to his feet and rush to the bottom of the steps. He was calling, “Cas, stop! Don’t go!” His voice sounded just as desperate as before, but there was something else in it now, too. A different kind of fear. Castiel stopped immediately. He couldn’t decide whether or not to believe Dean. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder.

Dean stared back frantically. “Stay,” he begged.

Castiel paused. He wanted to stay. Everything within him urged him to descend the stairs, to plead Sam’s forgiveness, to feel Dean’s arms around him. He was choosing to stay, like Dean asked him to. It was everything he’d ever wanted.

He heard himself say, “No.” He was turning around again, marching up the stairs. Behind him, he heard Dean take in a sharp, shaking breath, as if he’d been punched in the gut. It was the last thing Castiel heard before the door slammed closed behind him.

///

_Eileen’s dead, Cas. Sam, he’s . . . he’s trying not to give up. He’s trying to fight. Man, that might be worse. I’ve seen that look in his eyes before. After Jess . . . He wants revenge. He’s gonna get himself—._

_Cas, I can’t fight anymore. I don’t know how to—Damn it._

_She shouldda never gotten wrapped up with us. You shouldn’t’a either. Maybe then . . . Cas, I’m so sorry. I knew that this—this is what happens when me and Sam try to—to love people. But I thought we could be different. I thought, maybe . . . Maybe if I loved you enough . . ._

///

**September – Two Days Before**

He hadn’t done anything wrong. Those children were ill. They were dying. He’d helped them, healed them. He’d fixed them when the limited, human doctors couldn’t.

Castiel could return to the bunker with proof that the Mark wasn’t in control. All it did was strengthen his grace, and he was able to walk into the children’s ward of the hospital. The children could go home, too—they could live their lives and grow up without fear. Wasn’t that the point? To save lives? Isn’t that what Sam and Dean wanted? What the doctors had wanted?

Apparently, not. Because the nurses had tried to stop him. They’d called security, and when Castiel tossed that man through the glass partition of one of the children’s private rooms, the police had been called. He’d only been able to cure six children of their maladies before the two cops slapped cuffs on him and walked him out of the children’s ward. He didn’t tell them that simple metal cuffs weren’t enough to hold an angel—neither would a cell at the precinct.

“I was only trying to help,” he said as the police officers marched him past a nurses’ station in the trauma unit. Everyone seemed to freeze, stopping what they were doing to gawk at him being led towards the exit.

“Yeah, whatever you say, perv,” one of the cops said, her grip on his shoulder tightening as she led him forward.

He gritted his teeth, trying to stave off his anger. “Have the doctors run tests. The children are cured.”

“Uh-huh.”

He dug in his heels to stop himself, making it so the two police officers had to push him forward. He didn’t budge. He was stronger than both of them put together—stronger than any human. He was an angel, and they were preventing him from completing his mission.

Castiel wheeled around to face them, his arms still held behind his back. “I’m not finished.”

The police officers shared an annoyed glance, and then refocused on him. The woman said, “Listen, pal—.”

“I’m not your _pal_ ,” he told her, hoping the quotation marks could be heard in his tone. “I’m an Angel of the Lord.”

The second officer let out a laugh. “Okay, sure. Keep moving.”

Castiel recalled a time when the human race had faith. They would tremble at the sight of an angel. They would kneel and avert their eyes. These people didn’t understand. They should show him respect.

A light over the nurses’ station burst, sparks raining down from it. The man underneath it shouted and jumped out of the way. The cops’ eyes were quickly drawn to it. Another light down the hall popped, its glass shattering, leaving a pool of shadow along the walls and floor. The police officers seemed wary now. One of them reached for their holstered weapon.

Castiel’s grace was humming under his skin, filling his vessel’s ears. Its light pooled out into his eyes.

The woman officer stumbled backwards. “Oh my God.”

He ripped his arms apart, the cuffs still around his wrists. He walked closer to where the officers had backpedalled. The man had his gun out, and Castiel almost wished he would shoot. “I am not my Father,” Castiel told them. The light was burning inside him, its screaming hum blocking out all thought. It seemed to converge on a point on his arm.

He placed his palm on the woman’s forehead and sent his grace forward. Distantly, he heard her scream. White light pooled out of her eyes and mouth. She went silent, and he pulled his hand away. The body fell to the tiles, empty eye sockets smoldering.

People were screaming. The second cop was speaking into his radio, frantically calling for backup. Castiel wouldn’t let anyone else stand in the way of his mission.

He sent his grace forward again, letting its light overcome his vessel. He felt his skin burning, he heard all the fluorescents shattering. And then everything was dark—silent.

He blinked his eyes open. Both of the police officers were on the floor at his feet, bodies still. He brought his eyes up, glancing around the trauma unit. More bodies. Scattered everywhere. Smoke rising from them.

When Castiel came back to himself, it was with a sharp intake of air, like waking up.

No. He’d gone there to help people. He’d gone there to heal them.

The room was spinning. He’d never felt so disconnected from his body before. It was as if his consciousness was being pulled down by gravity, weighted to the earth, buried alive beneath his feet.

Everyone was dead. He couldn’t fix them.

“No.”

///

_I thought maybe if I loved you enough, I could make you stay._

///

**The Day Of**

The Enochian handcuffs dug into Castiel’s wrists, and the magic laced into them caused a static hum beneath his skin. He was weakened, his vessel’s limbs heavy around him, his grace buried. The Mark on his arm was searing, nearly roaring like a caged animal to be set free.

Moments ago, Sam had wrapped his arms around Castiel, but Castiel couldn’t return the embrace. Even if his hands were free, he wasn’t certain he would have. Sam’s round, glistening eyes as he promised this was only a temporary solution contradicted his words, and they made anger boil in Castiel’s gut. He would appreciate not being lied to, especially since it was the last time he and Sam would ever see each other. But then Sam had left, and Castiel and Dean were alone in the dungeon.

The Ma’lak Box was on the floor, the lid open. The metal inside barely glinted in the light, its texture too matted. Castiel knew he’d agreed to this. He knew he’d even suggested it. But, now, looking into the coffin, he was formulating an escape plan.

The Mark poked and prodded and festered until his mind swam.

“Cas.”

Castiel tore his eyes from the Box to look at Dean. He’d been quiet for so long, Castiel almost forgot he was there. But now he was stepping forward, eyes downcast, voice raw.

“You know I won’t let you stay in there forever, right?” Dean said, and he sounded so earnest, as if he really believed it. “Me and Sammy are gonna find a way. I promise.”

It wasn’t true. Even if Dean thought it was, it wasn’t. Castiel shook his head, his eyes still half on the Box. “Dean, maybe . . .” He wouldn’t get inside. He couldn’t. Fear crept in like icy water, filling him to the brim, brackish in his mouth. He glanced down at the handcuffs. “Perhaps these will be enough,” he suggested. “Keep me locked in here—,” he looked around at the dungeon. “We could ward it. We could use Holy Fire.”

Dean’s jaw was clamped so tightly, he could break his teeth. “We can’t,” he said. “Cas, we can’t. The Mark makes you too strong. You’ll break out eventually.”

He couldn’t get in the Box. It was worse than death. Worse than the Empty. At least, in the Empty, he’d be unconscious.

“You said it yourself,” Dean reasoned, but he was a hairsbreadth from actually believing it. His eyes were flickering along Castiel’s face like he was trying to see it all at once, to memorize it. “This is the only way. For now.”

Castiel let his eyes slip closed. He was right. He knew he was right. “I know,” he breathed out. He opened his eyes, a cold fist clamping around his stomach. If this were his fate, he was glad it was Dean. He would be at peace with that. He said, “I’m ready.”

Dean hesitated, just long enough for Castiel to change his mind again. The Mark on his arm felt as if it were trying to tear its way off his flesh. When Dean’s hand touched his elbow, meaning to guild him towards the Box, Castiel dug in his heels.

“Tomorrow,” he said. It was late. Dean was tired. What difference would a few hours make? Perhaps all the difference. Perhaps Sam and Dean would lose their will.

Castiel bent his arms up, fingers kneading into Dean’s shirt and pulling him in close. “Dean,” he said softly. “We could have one more night. We could—.” His eyes scanned Dean’s face, hoping he was having an affect. “We could get it right.” They'd tried a few times without success. Castiel wanted to show Dean how he felt about him, but he only ever ended up hurting him.

“Cas.” Dean looked so tempted, so eager to say yes.

Castiel told him, “I love you.”

Dean’s breath caught. He looked away, throat rippling. Castiel said again, “Dean. I love you.” Something inside of him was shouting it, too. _I love you_. It was the truth, but it sounded like a lie when said aloud.

“This isn’t you talkin’, Cas,” Dean said.

Castiel couldn’t let him believe that. His fingers tightened, twisting the fabric of Dean’s shirt. “Yes, it is. I should have told you before.”

Dean tried to back away. “Cas, don’t. Not like this. C’mon. You don’t mean it.”

Castiel wouldn’t let him go. He crowded in closer. “If it’s the last time you’ll get to hear it, what does it matter?”

“It fuckin’ matters,” Dean shot back. He settled, words trembling. “Cas, let me go. Come on. I know you’re still in there, Cas. I know you can still hear me. Get inside.”

“No.” Castiel was shaking his head furiously.

Dean put his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, but it wasn’t comforting. He tried to move Castiel towards the Box. Still, his thumb stroked Castiel’s arm. “Come on, it’s okay. I know it sucks, okay? But it’s not forever. We’ll figure out a way to get you back. Trust me.”

“No—!”

“Cas, I promise. It’s just for a little while.”

Castiel tried to struggle out of his hold. The handcuffs were weighing him down, holding his power prisoner. He tried to rip his wrists from them, he didn’t care if he striped his skin and broke his bones. “That’s the same thing you said to Jack.”

Dean’s eyes were red, his cheeks blotchy. His expression was that of a corpse. “This is different. Cas, get in.”

Something furious was ratcheting up Castiel’s chest, filling his throat, boiling upwards and pulling him into its undertow. “You won’t find a solution, Dean—you _can’t_.” The back of his ankle hit the side of the Box. “You asked me to stay, Dean. Let me stay.”

There was a ripping sound as the fabric of Dean’s shirt pulled under Castiel’s grip. The seams at the collar split into a small tear. Dean ignored it and pushed him backwards until Castiel stumbled, and he had to save himself from falling by putting one leg into the Box.

The Mark was screaming.

“Maybe you _want_ me to go. Don’t you? What does it matter if everyone around you leaves— _dies_? So long as you and Sam are safe? That’s why you let me take the Mark, Dean. Because I’ve always been expendable. Just like everyone else.”

A tear shook loose from Dean’s eye and dropped to the floor. He blinked away the access water. “This isn’t you talking,” he maintained.

Castiel carried on. “That’s why everyone dies or leaves you, Dean. I was just too stupid not to realize it sooner.”

“Cas, get in the Box.” Dean pushed at his shoulders, trying to lower him in. Castiel resisted. “Cas, don’t make me get Sam back in here.”

Castiel let out a laugh. It spilled from his lips. He wanted it to stop. He was hurting Dean. He couldn’t hurt Dean. He wouldn’t.

“Get Sam,” he challenged. “You can’t do this alone, Dean. You’re too weak. You’ve always been weak.”

Dean punched him hard in the face, and Castiel felt his lip split open. His vision whited out momentarily, and the next thing he knew, he was on his knees inside the Ma’lak Box. Dean was still gripping his shoulders, forcing him down.

Castiel lunged forward, attempting to push Dean away. Dean’s arms flew around him, locking him in a strange, struggling embrace. Castiel could feel the tremors rattling Dean’s body, could hear every choppy breath. Castiel could hear the blood coursing through his own ears, blocking out all else.

Dean lowered him down. Castiel tried to free his arms from between them so he could throw Dean off of him.

“I’ll come back for you, Cas, I promise," he whispered against Castiel's hair. "You hear me? I’ll find a way.” He was trying to be calm, but the crack running through his voice betrayed him. Once Castiel was laying down, Dean straddled him and picked himself up. He kept his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, holding him down. Castiel tried to kick his legs, to buck upwards to throw Dean off-balance.

“Dean, let me go,” he demanded, voice like thunder. “Let me go, Dean. Let me go, or I will find a way out this Box, and you will _beg_ for mercy.”

He wanted to tell Dean it was okay. That he trusted him. That he was doing the right the thing. That he forgave him. That he loved him.

“You’ll wish I’d left you in Hell.”

Dean landed another blow, this time to Castiel’s jaw. Distantly, Castiel was aware of Dean’s weight lifting off of him, but he was still recovering. When he reeled himself back in, Dean was out of the Box, standing over him. The lid was held up on its hinges, Dean’s hand wrapped around the edge, poised to close it.

Castiel held his blood between his teeth and glared up at Dean.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean whispered.

Castiel spat the blood at him, but all it did was fall back down to spatter across his cheeks. Dean’s mouth fell open, and his bottom lip quaked. There was a screeching sound, and then there was darkness. The last thing Castiel saw in the light was the green of Dean's eyes.

“Dean!” Castiel yelled. He heard the locks on the Box clicking closed. His insides were like ice—numb. The only thing he felt was the burn of the Mark. “Dean, let me go!”

He thrashed against the sides of the Box, hoping to find a weak point. He kicked upwards, knees banging hard against the inside of the lid. “ _Dean_!”

Outside the box, he heard something like nails dragging along the lid. Dean’s muffled, broken voice came through. “I’m sorry, Cas. Fuck—I’m—Cas.”

“Dean!” He couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t feel anything. All sensation faded. He could hardly even breathe. “Dean.”

There was an odd sort of symmetry to it.

This is how their story began: Dean climbing out of a coffin.

This is how their story would end: Castiel being put into one.

///

_I hope you like it . . . Where I put you. It’s in Pontiac. You remember that barn? You remember it, right, Cas? Where we . . . All that time ago?_

_It’s pretty sorry lookin’ now. Pretty run down. The roof caved in. But . . . I thought maybe you’d like it there. I don’t think you’d think it was a lost cause. You’d say we could rebuild it. And, I guess I just thought—if you were there, there might be a way . . . Maybe you’d remember. Maybe—maybe you’ll come back. Maybe it’s not too late—or—or you’re not too far gone. Maybe we can still be together. If you could just remember, maybe—._

_Fuck, who am I kidding?_

_I never couldda made you stay._


End file.
